


A good kind of pain

by ChronicBookworm



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Falling In Love, Grief/Mourning, Moving On, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25367341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChronicBookworm/pseuds/ChronicBookworm
Summary: After Matthew’s death, Lavinia all but moves in at Downton. Mary wants her gone, until she doesn’t.
Relationships: Mary Crawley/Lavinia Swire
Comments: 18
Kudos: 34
Collections: Just Married Exchange 2020





	A good kind of pain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonfishes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonfishes/gifts).



> I like Edith! I really do! But she doesn’t come off that well in this fic, because Mary interprets everything she says and does in the worst possible light.

Mary couldn’t quite understand what was happening around her. She knew that it was Matthew’s funeral, that he was gone, but she couldn’t quite comprehend that it was truly happening. How could it be? Any moment now, she would wake from this bad dream, and there would be Matthew, full of concern and love for her.

But she did not wake. And Matthew did not reappear. Mary drifted through the funeral, and the reception afterward, scarcely knowing what she was doing or who she was talking to. She was lost in a haze. She wasn’t grieving, as such. To grieve would imply that she was aware of her loss. She knew she ought to be, but she was distant from it. It wasn’t she who was being comforted by her family and friends. It wasn’t her, down in that room. Mary was above it all, remote.

Until she wasn’t. Until she was jerked back into reality by someone. A ghost from her past, as much as Matthew was now a ghost. Lavinia Swire stood there, dressed in mourning black, on the edges of the gathering, inconspicuous, but oh so prominent.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Lavinia said.

“Have you come to gloat?” Mary asked. “Rejoice that our happiness was short-lived? Are you here to triumph?”

“No, not at all. I’m here to share your sorrow. I lost him, too, you know.”

How dare she? How dare she imply that her loss was equal to Mary’s? Mary turned on her heel and walked away, lest she do something to scandalise the other guests.

Lavinia was still there in the morning. What right had she to impose on them in that way?

After a suitable time had passed, so it wasn’t the very first thing she said to Lavinia this morning, Mary made a polite enquiry about the time of Lavinia’s train. It turned out Lavinia was not going back to London that day. Because why would she? Why not stay here where she was entirely unwelcome? That seemed like a wonderful idea.

“I’m sure you must have better things to do in London than here,” Mary said, aiming for casual and friendly.

“I don’t, actually. In fact, I was wondering if I could stay here, a little while?”

“It won’t be a time of entertainment and merriment,” Papa warned her. “We are in mourning.”

“I understand,” Lavinia said. “And I don’t feel particularly merry myself, so that won’t bother me. And I won’t get in the way. I believe I can be helpful.”

Mary snorted under her breath. How could she possibly be helpful?

Mama and Papa exchanged speaking looks, the ones that meant they’d been talking privately, hadn’t entirely agreed, but had reached what they felt was a good solution and were counting on the other to see their part through.

“Of course you can stay,” Mama said. “We’d be happy to have you.”

Traitor.

*

So Lavinia settled in, as if to stay a long time. It was slightly suspicious, Mary thought, how much she had brought with her the first time, and how easily she had the rest of her things sent down from London, as if she had planned to move to Downton. Nobody was rude enough to ask her to leave, not when Mama and Papa had given her permission to stay, and it seemed as if she bothered nobody much. Except Mary. She bothered Mary. Despite herself, Mary had actually liked Lavinia, when she was engaged to be married to Matthew. She had been generous and kind, and even though they had been romantic rivals, they had gotten along well. But now Mary was filled with anger. What possible reason could she have to be here, if not to rub Mary’s loss in her face, as if to say, ‘well, neither of us could have him, you didn’t win after all’, as if to say, ‘at least I didn’t get a taste of domestic bliss, at least I don’t know what I’m missing’? It was cruel, and Mary hated her for it.

*

It was hard to get out of bed. Most days, Mary didn’t even bother. What was the point?

*

She’d grown up with Carson, although he was usually careful to always behave properly and not let his personal feelings get in the way of doing his job to the best of his ability, she knew him, she could read him, and he did sometimes let his guard down around her, if she invited him to the right way.

“I hope Lavinia’s presence isn’t causing undue stress for you downstairs,” she asked him, inviting him to have a grumble and air his opinion, “especially since we’re a house in mourning.”

“Not at all, my lady, we can certainly manage,” he replied, ever the consummate professional.

Of course, her having asked that way, meant he had to say that.

“Although, not that it’s my place to say, my lady, but I do find it odd that she’s here, especially considering the family is not entertaining.”

“You don’t need to tell me that,” Mary said, feeling better now that she’d gotten him to have his grumble. At least she wasn’t the only one who didn’t want Lavinia here. “I find it extremely odd, too.”

“I’m not entirely sure I approve,” said Carson, emboldened by her agreement.

“No, nor do I.”

At least she had trusty Carson on her side, who never let her down.

*

Mary was a widow. She didn’t feel like it – widows were older, past their prime. Granny and her circle were widows. They’d lived their lives, had their love, and now were waiting to die in peace. Mary hadn’t even had that. She’d lost her potential life, not a life she’d actually lived. She'd hardly been a wife long enough to be a widow. It wasn’t a word she identified with. But it was hers. She was a widow. She’d lost her husband, and with it, her identity, exchanged for that cruel word that didn’t fit her. She wasn’t Matthew’s wife, future Lady Grantham, but his widow, future nothing.

*

Anna tried to coax her out of bed, telling her that it was a lovely day, that Master George was in his nursery, that if she could just try for a little bit, she could return if it was too much, but the thought was overwhelming, and so she ate her breakfast in bed, and didn’t get up to let Anna dress her. Anna turned away, silently, full of worry and care – it was smothering and exhausting, but she meant well.

Mary just couldn’t get up. Didn’t want to. She had the right to be lazy – she had more than enough cause. She just couldn’t face the world, the pity, the sorrow. Everyone would be so kind, and she couldn’t bear it.

The others would be finishing up downstairs, comparing plans for the day, making plans to meet in the drawing room for tea. Lavinia would be there, of course, included in the plans, like she were a daughter of the house. The thought of Lavinia in the drawing room, being petted and cossetted, when she had no right, set Mary’s teeth on edge. Lavinia would be comfortable with the family, everyone adored her, and Mary, the only one who didn’t, was stuck in here, in her bedroom, out of sight and out of mind, so of course Lavinia wouldn’t be bothered. As long as Mary just stayed in her room, she was ceding ground to Lavinia, allowing her to encroach on Mary’s space. No. It was not to be. Mary forced herself out of bed and rang for Anna. She would face her family, face the world, face Lavinia, out of spite, if nothing else.

*

“Why is she here?” Mary asked Mama. She didn’t cry, although it was close. Lately it seemed all she did was cry, and she was heartily sick of it. “Why do you allow her to stay?”

“Your Papa and I thought it might help to have someone around who knows what you’re going through,” Mama said, delicately.

“Shouldn’t I be the judge of that? I certainly don’t want her here. I’m your actual family – she’s nothing to us. It seems to me that you're putting her wants above mine,” Mary said, her anger and frustration almost boiling over in an embarrassing display of tears. She held herself together and blinked rapidly.

“That’s not what we’re doing.”

“It feels like it.”

“You’ll understand when you’re more yourself,” Mama said, reaching out to stroke Mary’s arm. Mary jerked it away.

“This is me,” she said. “This is what I am now. This is what Matthew’s death has turned me into. This weeping, useless mess.”

“But it’s not all you can be,” Mama said. “I know you. You’re my daughter. You’re strong. Do you want to know the real reason why Lavinia’s allowed to stay?”

“Please.”

“Because her presence seems to be the only thing that gets you to feel something. She gets you out of this daze you’ve been in. If she helps you keep going out of spite, then so be it. I know it hurts you right now, but I will take everything I can get to help you through this, and if that means using that poor girl, then so be it. You’re my daughter, and I love you.”

That was a ruthlessness Mary seldom saw from Mama, and strangely, it made her feel better.

*

Lavinia’s presence, although Mama seemed to think it helped, was a constant provocation to Mary. Could she not be left alone to grieve her husband, without the reminder of the Other Woman? It came to a head when she found Lavinia crying in her bedroom. She remembered the other times she’d come across Lavinia crying, when Matthew was going back to the Front, or when they’d thought he would never walk or father children, and she’d been sympathetic then, had comforted Lavinia, been reassured that if she was going to lose Matthew, at least it would be to someone who loved him as he ought to be loved, someone who deserved him. Well, not now. She felt no such sympathy now.

“You have no right to mourn him like I do,” she told Lavinia coldly, stepping into Lavinia’s bedroom. “You left him.”

Lavinia sat up and dried her tears. She looked pretty, even puffy-eyed and red-nosed as she was – because of course Lavinia was also the kind of person who’d look pretty when she cried. Of course she was.

“I stepped aside because I could tell he loved you more,” Lavinia replied with just a hint of a bite in her tone, and despite how little she thought of Lavinia, Mary was impressed – she hadn’t thought Lavinia capable of standing up for herself. “But we both lost him.”

She looked at Mary with a clear eye, and it was almost as if she was searching for something in Mary. Mary had the feeling of not measuring up, and she didn’t like it. Who was Lavinia to judge how she was coping with her grief? Especially when Lavinia’s way seemed to consist of imposing where she wasn’t wanted and grieve vicariously through the Crawleys.

“Do you imagine this is the part where we fall into each other’s arms and cry?” Mary asked, putting enough venom in her tone to kill a full-grown man. “Is this the part where we become bosom sisters, joined by our shared pain? Because that’s not really the way I do things, I’m afraid.”

“No, that’s not what I expect,” Lavinia said, seemingly unbothered by Mary's tone.

“Then what _do_ you expect?” Mary asked in exasperation. She did not understand Lavinia, at all.

“That if you feel angry enough with me, you might rouse yourself to feel other things, too, in time.”

This was so close to what Mama had said, that Mary suspected that the two of them had talked about this behind her back. She saw red. Who was Lavinia to decide what she needed? What did Lavinia care if she felt anything, or not? That might be the ruse Mama had fallen for, but Mary wouldn’t be taken in. Lavinia had some other, more selfish reason. Nobody was as good as she pretended to be.

“Are you such a masochist that you’d subject yourself to this, just to make me feel better? I find that hard to believe,” she pushed. “Why are you really here?”

“Because I loved him too,” Lavinia said. It seemed like she was about to say something more, but she changed her mind, and closed her mouth.

When nothing more was forthcoming, Mary turned and stalked out of the room. She had a feeling she’d lost that particular bout between them, and she wasn’t even sure Lavinia was competing.

*

The thing about Lavinia was that she was pretty, and kind, and patient, and the word that came to mind to describe her was ‘angelic’. She was almost perfect. Mary had never hated anyone more, for being everything Mary wasn’t. Mary didn’t know why she sought Lavinia out – she should be avoiding her, by all rights. Maybe she was as much of a masochist as Lavinia.

*

Carson was supportive of Mary, as always, when she said she couldn’t understand why Lavinia was there, and Mama had explained her reasoning in allowing her to stay, but the rest of the family seemed not to understand why it might bother Mary. Papa was too busy with his own grief, having lost his second heir in a decade, and having to come to see Matthew almost like the son he’d always wanted. He loved all his daughters, Mary knew, but he had always wanted a son, and Matthew being both his son-in-law and his heir seemed perfect. Papa was grieving just as she, not just Matthew as a person (although they had both loved Matthew as a person very much), but also what he represented.

As for Edith, she had been remarkably bearable – there seemed to be limits that not even Edith would cross, past evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. Still, Mary and Edith had never understood each other, and that still showed.

“Don’t you think it’s odd, that Lavinia has all but moved in here?” Mary asked at one tea-time, when Lavinia was visiting Cousin Isobel (another person whose grief was all-encompassing, and Mary was selfishly glad Lavinia had taken it upon herself to bear the brunt of the visits, because she didn’t think she had it in her to face Matthew’s mother).

“She’s grieving too,” Edith said, because Edith was always willing to see the best in everyone except Mary, always took the side of whoever was against Mary out of habit. “She can grieve in her own way, and I think Cousin Isobel finds comfort in her presence. Perhaps it helps Lavinia to be close to other people who are also grieving. Perhaps she deals with her feelings by being helpful.”

This seemed remarkably like Lavinia, and Mary was somewhat surprised at Edith’s insight – she’d never been good at reading people before. Or maybe that just stretched to her utter inability to recognise when someone wasn't that into her.

“Yes, but does she have to do it at my expense?” Mary asked.

“I didn’t realise she was, and perhaps she doesn’t either,” Edith said. “Does her presence bother you that much?”

“Yes,” Mary said immediately. Then: “no. I don’t know.”

“She’s helping you, too, you know,” Edith said. “She’s been ever so helpful with George.”

“That’s not her business,” Mary said, feeling defensive. “She’s not George’s mother.”

“Girls,” Mama said, trying to smooth things over as soon as Mary and Edith started to get snippy with each other, like she always had.

“She’s being a better mother to him than you are,” Edith said, and Mary was for a moment stuck dumb by Edith’s casual cruelty, but perhaps she shouldn’t be. Edith had shown several times that she might seem kind and considerate to others, but when it came to Mary, she had no limits. What right had Edith to judge her – Edith, who’d never had a child, Edith, who didn’t know what it was to be loved, who’d always been bitter and unfulfilled, who’d never experienced the happiness Mary had, nor had it ripped away from under her feet? If there was anyone in the world _less_ entitled to judge Mary than Edith, she had yet to find that person.

“How dare you?” Mary asked. 

“Edith!” Mama said at the same time.

“All I’m saying is, you hardly ever see him,” Edith tried to defend herself.

“You have no right to judge,” Mary said. “None of you do. None of you know what I’m going through.”

The only person who might understand was Granny, but Granny’s children had been adults when she’d lost her husband. Nobody else in the family had been a young widow with a child – none of them knew what Mary had lost. How dare they sit there smugly and think they knew how Mary should cope with her grief?

“We’re not judging you, darling,” Mama said in a conciliatory tone, but Mary could stand no more of them. She left, teacup half full and biscuit still on the plate.

*

That evening, Mary went to the nursery – not to show Edith wrong, but because she just wanted to see George. The door was opened, and she looked in before announcing herself. Lavinia was there, holding George with experienced arms and cooing down at him, while Nanny bustled about putting the laundry away. Mary retreated without seeing George. She wasn’t up to it.

*

It niggled, that perhaps Edith was right. That Lavinia was a better mother to George than Mary, that she was perhaps a better daughter-in-law to Cousin Isobel than Mary was, that she was perhaps a better sister to Edith than Mary was. She was ingratiating herself in every aspect of the house, helping everyone who needed or wanted help, subsuming her own wants and desires, when Mary was a ball of selfishness and had nothing to spare for anyone else.

The next time she found Lavinia coming back from a visit with Cousin Isobel, she couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Is this like when you were going to give up your life to nurse Matthew for the rest of your days?” she asked. “Did you ever actually love him, or did you just love being a martyr?”

She swept out before Lavinia could formulate a reply. Well, that bout she had definitely won.

*

“I don’t love being a martyr,” Lavinia said. She hadn’t entered Mary’s room, but she was hovering in the doorway. They had both finished dressing for dinner, and were about to go down. Mary didn’t want to know how long Lavinia had been waiting for her to emerge. “And I did love Matthew.”

“Then why are you here?” Mary asked, again.

“Because I can be of use here,” Lavinia said. Mary raised one eyebrow. And she said she wasn’t a martyr. Lavinia must have realised how she sounded, because she coloured. “I do like helping people, but I try not to let it be at the expense of myself.”

“I’d work harder on that, if I were you,” Mary said. She’d meant it snidely, but it came out kinder than she wanted, almost like actual advice. Lavinia smiled slightly.

“Yes, perhaps I could. But I like being helpful.”

Because Lavinia was good, and kind and generous, and lovely in every way. Mary closed her eyes, and hated.

*

The thing about grief, and especially about grieving her husband in their home, was that everywhere reminded her of Matthew, the driveway reminded her of driving up it with Matthew in the car – she’d gotten rid of the horrid thing, of course, couldn’t bear to keep it. The river reminded her of picnics they’d had on the riverbanks. The village reminded her of going to village fêtes with him. The library reminded her of arguments they’d had in there about the running of the estate, and the drawing room of after-dinner banter they’d shared. And then there was her bed, which was so terribly empty and cold.

*

Despite this, she was fairly certain she wouldn’t remarry. There was nobody who could fill that place in her heart that Matthew and filled, and with an heir to the estate, there was no need to. She told Mama as much, and Mama smiled sadly.

“You say that now, dear, but perhaps you might change your mind in the future.”

But Mary knew she wouldn’t.

*

“Do you ever think that if he’d married you, he might still be alive?” Mary asked Lavinia one evening, when the rest of the family had gone to bed. Mary should go to bed, too, and so should Lavinia, but for some reason both of them had lingered in the drawing room.

“No, of course not!” Lavinia replied immediately, sounding shocked by the very thought.

“I do, sometimes,” Mary confessed, “and I hate you for it.”

“I’m sorry,” Lavinia said, which was not the usual reaction when one was told that someone hated one for something one really had no control over. But that was Lavinia in a nutshell. “I wish I could make it better for you.”

“But you can’t,” Mary replied, “so why are you still here?”

“Because this is where I should be right now.”

Did she ever run out of reasons to stay? Or at least different ways of expressing the same reason?

“I wish I had your faith,” Mary said, not feeling up to having the argument.

“I have faith enough for the both of us,” Lavinia replied.

*

Mary almost wished Lavinia would blame her – it would make it easier to cope with the blame she held for herself.

*

The next time she found Lavinia in the nursery with George, she did not turn away. She walked up and took him from her, holding him close. He blinked blearily up at her, as if confused. She knew it was the expression most babies made, but she still felt a stab of guilt, as if he were reproving her for not coming more.

“He’s not your son,” she told Lavinia.

“I know.” She sounded sad and wistful.

“Why do you insist on causing yourself pain?” Mary asked, mostly rhetorically.

“It’s not just pain,” Lavinia said. “And sometimes, it’s what I want.”

Mary could understand that. She wondered what it said about the two of them, that they kept seeking out the things that caused them pain.

*

Mary’s hands shook too much to manage the teapot. Carson had taken one step forward, almost unheard of for the proper butler, but of course he would do anything to make her life easier, when Lavinia took over the role of pouring tea. She handed Mary a teacup with her delicate hands, her long, slender fingers cradling the cup.

“Thank you,” she said, and found that she meant it.

Mary should really take the pot back, and pour, it was her duty as hostess, but she wasn’t sure she could manage. She hated to admit it, but she was slightly relieved that Lavinia had taken the role on herself. Of course, that she could feel and show gratitude to Lavinia for helping her didn’t mean she didn’t want her gone.

*

Some days got a bit easier to bear. Most days were still very hard.

*

Lavinia took the pot to pour tea again, but Mary snatched if from her before her fingers could grip the handle. She didn’t need Lavinia’s help, not today. She wasn’t so far gone as to need it every day.

“You’ve set yourself up nicely here,” she said, “taking on the role of hostess, as if you have the right. Your presence here does nobody any good at all.”

She poured herself a cup, and deliberately did not pour one for Lavinia.

“Ask me to leave, and I will,” Lavinia said.

“What do you think I’m doing right now?” Really, she hadn't thought Lavinia to be this dense.

“I think you’re lashing out. I think you’re saying things to make yourself feel better. But ask me to leave – tell me in so many words that you want me gone, and I will take the next train back to London.”

Mary opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. She wanted Lavinia gone, and here was her chance, so why could she not form the words? She closed her mouth again. Lavinia took the teapot, and poured herself a cup.

*

They took tea together several times over the next few weeks, and Mary found it wasn't as intolerable as it had been before. She found it easier to be polite, and stopped asking why Lavinia was here, and when she was going back to London. She had the realisation that if Lavinia was here, there was something in London that meant that staying at Downton was the better option, with Mary (who could acknowledge that she wasn’t the easiest to get along with, and had in fact deliberately made herself unpleasant), in the oppressive silence of the house in mourning, where she would constantly be reminded of what could have been, and constantly reminded of Matthew, mourning him a second time. Whatever waited her in London must seem worse than being here. Mary didn’t know what it was, but she felt a pang of sympathy for Lavinia, suffering in silence.

*

Of course, just because Mary had had that realisation, that didn’t mean the rest of the family had. Edith and Mama were of course all in favour of letting Lavinia stay as long as she liked, but as Mary had wanted support in wishing Lavinia gone before and felt she didn’t get any, now that she no longer actively wished Lavinia away, it seemed voices calling for her removal were crawling out the woodwork. Specifically, Granny.

“I don’t understand, when is she leaving?” Granny asked. “Notwithstanding that we are a house in the depths of mourning, we’re not running a hotel for washed-up spinsters,” she continued with her usual acerbity.

“Lavinia is not washed up,” Mary objected. “She’s still young, pretty, and well off; she has all the chances in the world to find someone, marry, and be happy.”

Unlike Mary, who had had her chance, and had it end horribly. Lavinia would make someone a good wife, whoever she chose would be very happy.

“Well, she won’t find anyone if she keeps hanging round the family of the one who rejected her,” was Granny’s retort.

“He didn’t reject her, she rejected him,” Mary corrected. It suddenly seemed to matter. Matthew would have stood by Lavinia, and it was Lavinia who let him go. Lavinia was the one who gave Mary her brief moment of happiness, who stood aside for Mary and Matthew. She had been so good to them, right from the start, and Mary had been nothing but jealous and horrid.

“Hmpfh,” said Granny.

*

“Perhaps you would like to pour?” Mary asked Lavinia the next time they had tea together. “My hands shake too much.”

Lavinia looked surprised, then a small smile appeared, that didn’t even reach her mouth. Lavinia smiled with her eyes. She had such very expressive eyes. She took the teapot from Mary’s steady hands, and although she must be able to sense that Mary wasn’t shaking, Mary hoped she was able to take the apology for what it was.

Carson stood at the door to the drawing room, and Mary could feel the disapproval emanate from him even though he hadn’t moved so much as a muscle in his face. But that was no matter. She would set things right with Carson.

*

The universe seemed to be handing her opportunities to make up for her past behaviour. When Mary found Lavinia in the nursery again, playing peek-a-boo with George on the floor, who was delighted each and every time she removed her delicate fingers from her heart-shaped face, she stayed for a moment to observe the two, feeling melancholic, but not badly so. It should have been Matthew and her playing with George in this way, and here Lavinia was, making up for both a dead father and a mother too caught up in her own grief to pay as much attention to her son as she ought.

Lavinia looked up, and, seeing Mary, looked slightly nervous and stood up, taking a step away from George, who, having lost his companion, started making distressed noises. With a quick glance at Mary, Lavinia bent down to pick him up and made shushing noises at him.

“You’re good with him,” Mary said, to ease Lavinia’s worry. “Almost like you’re his mother, not I.”

“That’s not true.”

“To my shame, it is.”

“Here, you hold him,” Lavinia said, coming forward to deposit him in Mary’s arms.

George looked confused, but did not seem to mind the change of carer.

“See, he knows his mother,” Lavinia said with a hand on Mary’s back, as if they were a couple. But that was a forbidden thought, and Mary quickly chased it from her mind.

George looked like Matthew, had his chin and nose. Mary had never really understood how people looked at babies and saw their parents – babies looked like babies, and she had dismissed it as wishful thinking on the part of overly sentimental relatives. But George – George looked like Matthew, and it was almost more than Mary could bear. She supposed she had become an overly sentimental relative.

*

There were sounds of sobbing coming from Lavinia’s room. Mary knocked gently and opened the door. Lavinia tried to dry her tears and put on a smile.

“Sorry, did I bother you?” she asked, because of course Lavinia would put Mary’s comfort ahead of hears.

“Not at all. I was concerned, that is all.”

“I know I have no right to mourn,” Lavinia said. “Not compared to you.”

“I think,” said Mary, “that perhaps it’s useless to compare grief. Grief is grief, and no one person has more a right to it than anyone else.”

How unthinkable that would have been, just some few months ago. She didn’t realise until she said it, how far she had come.

She sat down and clasped Lavinia’s hands, which fit perfectly in hers. It reminded her of the War, how she had come across Lavinia upset on more than one occasion, how the two of them had drawn comfort and strength from each other. She’d wanted to hate Lavinia then, but hadn’t been able to – and while she had, for some time, actually hated Lavinia, she found she no longer did. She didn’t think anyone could hate Lavinia for long. She was just too lovely.

*

It was not all sorted between them. She hadn’t fallen into loving Lavinia, just like that, petals and roses, all is well, let’s join hands and sing together. That wasn’t Mary, and it wasn’t Mary in grief. There were days when she awake, raging at the world, feeling black with fury and loss and sorrow, and she shouted and threw things, and accused Lavinia of horrible things, of weaselling in on her family, on grieving vicariously through Mary, of lauding her virtues and putting herself above Mary, of using Mary’s grief to feel virtuous. And Lavinia said very little, just made a sad face and denied every accusation flung against her.

And then the mood would pass, and Mary would feel ashamed. She wasn’t one who like to apologise with words, but it seemed Lavinia understood her friendly overtures for what they were, and responded with warmth and kindness. It was nice, having someone who didn’t need the words, who understood her on that instinctive level. Matthew and she had had to work so hard to come to that spot, but with Lavinia, it seemed almost natural, automatic. She wondered what that said about her, and what it said about Matthew, and Lavinia, but she didn’t want to overthink it.

*

“Carson doesn’t approve of me,” Lavinia said, on one occasion when she had bullied Mary out of the house to go on a walk with her (bullied was perhaps a strong word: she had asked, and Mary had seen no reason not to).

“He’s always been protective of me,” Mary said. “He thinks your presence here is hurting me.”

Lavinia turned to look at Mary, her green eyes large and worried.

“Is it?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” Mary replied, honestly. “But it’s not a bad hurt.”

“Yes, I know exactly what you mean.”

“I dare say you do,” Mary said, and took her arm. If anyone understood, it was Lavinia.

*

Christmas came, the first Christmas without Matthew. It should be a joyful occasion, George’s first Christmas, but nobody felt very jolly at all, with the house still in mourning. Four months – it would soon be time for the rest of the family to transition to half-mourning, leaving only Mary and Cousin Isobel in full mourning. How had time passed so quickly? It had seemed to stretch out endless before her. And yet, those four months had felt like four decades. She felt like she had aged years.

Lavinia went home for Christmas - Mary wasn’t quite sure if it was because she didn’t want to impose (it was one thing all but moving in during the rest of the year, but Christmas was something else, a time for family – it would have been going too far to stay for Christmas), of if it was because she felt like she had a duty to celebrate with her father – which was the reason she gave, but of course Lavinia would never admit that it was because she felt less than welcome at Downton.

Mary felt fractious and irritable, and she knew she was being irrational and demanding, but knowing that did not exactly help her mood, and it was all a vicious cycle that she couldn’t get out of. Edith was of course the first to comment on it.

“You’ve been more horrid than usual these past few weeks,” she said. “Perhaps we should ask Lavinia back, if nothing else to give you another target for your ire than us. I confess, it was nice to not be the person you hated the most in the house, for once.”

“Must you always be so spiteful?” Mary asked. “Can’t I mourn my first Christmas without my husband in peace?”

And, a beat later:

“It has nothing to do with Lavinia.”

But she did wonder, if perhaps Lavinia’s presence might not make it easier to bear. Not because she hated her, no, she was past that, but because her gentle understanding, her knowledge of what Mary was going through, her acceptance without judgement did make it easier to face the world. But this realisation might have come too late. Had she driven Lavinia off, the same way she’d driven off so many suitors, by being alternating hot and cold until they could no longer stand it?

If she was truly honest with herself, it was only lately she had been alternating hot and cold – before that she had been only cold. It would be entirely Mary’s own fault if Lavinia decided she didn’t want to come back. In fact, Edith might even say it served her right. But of course Lavinia was no suitor, the situation was entirely different.

Mary had not thought that she would miss Lavinia, she had thought that, even if they got on better recently (and that, she had to admit, was mainly due to her own changed attitude), she still thought she would be relieved. But she found the house seemed even more gaping and empty with Lavinia gone – and she was somehow even more reminded of Matthew. Lavinia’s presence at the house had actually grown comforting – that there was somebody else who understood what she was going through, someone who placed no expectations or demands on Mary, someone who missed Matthew as a suitor, lover, the man they thought they’d share their life with. She wasn’t saying their grief was worse than anyone else’s, especially not Cousin Isobel’s, but it was different. She had to confront the fact that maybe she did in fact like Lavinia after all.

Of course, it could just be that it was her first Christmas without Matthew, but there was nothing she could do about that – no amount of wishing would bring him back. Lavinia, on the other had… Mary swallowed her pride, and wrote to invite her return.

*

“Invite Lavinia back?” Granny asked in consternation, taking the teacup Mama handed to her in the drawing room. “Have you gone mad?”

“I like her,” Mary defended herself. Why must her family be so exasperating? “She’s good company.”

“Are you sure you’re not causing yourself pain?” Papa asked with a worried frown between his eyes.

“Why are you so concerned now? Before Christmas you were all but throwing her at me,” Mary protested, ignoring the way it sounded like Lavinia was one of Mary’s suitors. The situation was not at all the same.

“You were at a different stage in your grief then,” Mama said diplomatically. “But you seem to be coping well without her.”

“That’s not what Edith says,” Mary replied with an arch look at Edith, who returned it with a scowl, but said nothing. “Besides, I can invite who I want, can’t I? I’m not about to go throwing house parties here, we’re still in mourning, but to invite one close friend to stay with me and support me, that’s allowed, is it not?”

“Of course you can, dearest,” Papa said. “We just think it strange, is all. Especially when you were so adamant you didn’t want her.”

“Am I not allowed to change my mind? Do you want me to uninvite her?”

“Not at all,” Mama said. “We like Lavinia, we just…” she trailed off.

“Good, because I’ve already sent the invitation, and it would be terribly embarrassing to have to retract it.”

She hoped her family would take the hint, and move the conversation to other matters – she did not particularly like feeling like she was answering for some crime, or like a naughty child being scolded for not knowing her own good. Honestly. She didn’t see why they thought it was such a big deal.

*

Lavinia returned, and when Mary reached out to clasp her hands, she reached in to embrace Mary. Mary put her arms round Lavinia and breathed in her scent of rose-water and lavender, which felt so apt and right for Lavinia. Of course she used rose water and lavender as her perfume, not the cloying, overpowering modern scents that one hardly could tell what they were meant to be.

“I was glad you wrote,” Lavinia said sincerely.

“I’m glad you came. It’s good to have you back,” Mary replied, taking her arm to escort her in, almost as if she were a gentleman and Lavinia her lady. Lavinia felt right on her arm, her light touch comforting and almost electric, and she was of the right height to make them fit together very well indeed.

“I thought you didn’t like me,” Lavinia continued. “I thought I was forcing my presence of you.”

“So did I,” Mary said. “But then I became habituated to your presence. A bit like the proverbial frog in boiling water, I suppose, would be an apt metaphor. Don’t go thinking there’s any sentimentality in it.”

“I won’t,” Lavinia said, with her small smile lighting up her features, showing she took the comment in the spirit it was intended.

*

“I really am glad you’re here,” Mary said to Lavinia. They were in Lavinia’s bedchamber, and this time not because Lavinia was crying – it felt very scandalous and daring, although of course as two women there was nothing at all objectionable about it. But still, the air felt charged in a way it hadn’t before. “My family think I don’t know my own mind – in fact, Granny swears up and down that I have gone mad, inviting you back – but they never say anything directly to me, they just insinuate, and they are always so very, very considerate. They treat me as if I were made of spun glass, and it gets tedious. All it does is remind me of why they’re so considerate, and that brings the loss back up again.”

“I think everything would remind you of that right now, even if they treated you as normal, and if they weren’t considerate, that would also hurt, but in a different way,” Lavinia said. She stopped to remove her earrings with her slender fingers, her hair falling forward to frame her face. “They want to show they care. Let them, for their sake, if not for yours.”

“Why must you be so reasonable?” Mary asked, but she said it softly, fondly, helping Lavinia unclasp her necklace.

“I should call for Anna, she’s better at this than me,” Mary said, feeling self-conscious now that the jewellery was removed. She felt like staying for more would be going too far, inviting a degree of intimacy she wasn’t ready for, not yet. But the fact that she could think that, that it was a ‘not yet’ and not a ‘never’, well, that meant something, she thought. She just didn’t know what.

*

Grief was a funny thing. She’d go almost half a day without thinking of him, and then it would hit her how much she missed him, his plans and dreams for Downton, the way he was so full of life, his cleverness, and enthusiasm, and goodness.

“I miss him,” she said to Lavinia.

“Me too.

It was such a simple thing, just five words spoken in total, but it spoke to their shared experience, a reminder that she was not on her own. Matthew was the ghost between them – binding them together and keeping them apart.

*

“My father’s written to me, he wants me to return,” Lavinia said one morning when they’d all grown comfortable having her there, and she was fitting in almost more like a member of the family than a guest. Mary shouldn’t be shocked at the pang of loss that struck her at hearing those words, but she was.

“That’s a shame,” she said, putting a brave face on it, “we do so like having you here. When do you leave?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure I want to. Can’t you say you need me desperately, and I couldn’t possibly leave you in this state. There’s no urgency in my father’s request.”

Mary and Mama exchanged a glance.

“Of course there can be no thought of you leaving,” Mary said. “I couldn’t possibly do without you.”

She dearly hoped she’d come across as joking, as obliging Lavinia’s request, rather than actually sincerely begging Lavinia to stay – that would be mortifying.

“Thank you,” Lavinia said, sounding very relieved and grateful. “I'll write to him and extend my stay here.”

“Is everything well between you and your father, dear?” Mama asked.

“Yes, of course,” Lavinia replied quickly. “I just prefer Downton to London.”

Mary shook her head slightly at Mama when she opened her mouth again. Whatever the reason, Lavinia would not appreciate being pressed about it at the breakfast table. Mary would get the details from her in private, and inform Mama of what she needed to know (which, truthfully, probably wasn’t a great deal, as Lavinia’s business was her own).

She didn’t find the right opportunity until a few days later – the problem with winter was that the family was always around, and the places they could sit were constrained when they couldn’t use the garden, but there were enough rooms that sooner or later, you would catch someone alone in one – in this case, it was the library. Mary wouldn’t have disturbed her if she were reading, but since she was just browsing, Mary felt comfortable taking up the space next to her.

“Are you interested in anything in particular?” she asked.

“No, not really. Just something to take my mind off things.”

Well, that was too good an opening to pass up – it was almost as if Lavinia was inviting the question, and Mary was not one to disappoint.

“Is this to do with why you don’t want to go back to London?”

Lavinia sighed.

“It’s nothing really,” she said.

“It’s clearly not nothing if it means you’d rather stay here, in this dreary house, with me at my worst, than face whatever is there.”

“Don’t put yourself down, I like you, even at your worst,” Lavinia said. She picked a book at random and started leafing through it, idly. “There’s a man in London.”

“Ah,” Mary said. “One you wish to avoid?”

“He’s a client of my father’s, or my father wants him to be. Very wealthy. Very influential in the party, so if we offend him, it would mean the end of my uncle’s career – and it’s my fault it’s so precarious to begin with. I’ve done enough to damage his career.”

Mary remembered something about Lavinia’s role in the Marconi scandal, and the blackmail Sir Richard had held over her. Surely that still wasn’t haunting them – that was a decade ago!

“So you don’t want to turn him down,” Mary prompted.

“I haven’t said anything to him, I try to avoid him if I can, but he gets… handsy. There’s just something about him that makes me feel unsafe. It seems so small, and silly. He hasn’t _done_ anything. I just – he makes my skin crawl.”

“Not at all,” Mary said. “I would be taking every opportunity to get away from such a man, too, if I were in your position. Don’t worry, my dear, Downton will always be open to you. As long as he is still relevant, I shall have a desperate need of your company.”

Mary was well acquainted with the type of fellow. With their influential families around them, Lavinia and she should be guarded against such men, but there were always exceptions, and one little slip could ruin a girl forever – even in the forward-thinking modern 1920s. It was barbaric, but it was a fact of life.

“Thank you,” Lavinia breathed, her green eyes shining. “Thank you so much.”

“Don’t mention it.”

*

Life settled into a slow, steady routine. The days grew longer, the outdoors was still too cold to be in comfortably, and Lavinia was still around.

“You know, it seems horrid, but sometimes I envy you,” Lavinia said one day.

“Oh? How so?”

“Your loss is recognised, visible to the eye on the very first glance. People see you, and they know you lost your husband. They sympathise. I don’t even have that. People look at me, and they see a sad hanger-on, ingratiating herself with her lost love’s family even after his death, unable to move on. That seems rather pathetic, and not in the nice, poetic meaning of the word.”

“I don’t see that,” Mary objected.

“No, but you’re different,” Lavinia said with a sad smile. “Extraordinary.”

“I’m not,” Mary said.

“You are.”

*

That Lavinia felt confident enough to confide in Mary, both about the real reason she didn’t want to go back to London (all Mary had told Mama was that she had good reason to want to avoid certain people in London, through no fault of her own), and now most recently about her own slightly ignoble feelings, showed that things had changed between them, had made them more equal – it wasn’t just Lavinia putting up with Mary’s temperament and supporting her unconditionally, but also the other way round. It was a relief – Mary’s pride disliked when she was an object of sympathy and support, and she disliked feeling like she was taking advantage of Lavinia, but it also came with a sense of melancholia, since her being in a position to reciprocate meant that she didn’t just need support any longer, and that meant that she was getting over the loss of Matthew, that she was slowly moving on, and she wasn’t sure she wanted that.

*

As she was slowly getting out of her fog of grief, there were some things she recognised about how she had acted, that she had known even then were wrong, but could only now admit to herself were very badly done.

“I haven’t apologised for how I treated you, before,” she said to Lavinia.

“There’s no need. Your actions speak to your apology.”

“All the same, I should like to say the words.”

They’d built up over so long, she needed to get them out.

“I am sorry for how I behaved.”

“Your apology is accepted.”

Still, Mary felt the need to explain.

“I hated you because it was easier than hating myself.”

“I know.”

“I had – I still have – so much hate in me. I’m a black cloud of hatred.”

“I’m sorry,” Lavinia said. She put her hand over Mary’s and squeezed. There was a pause.

“Sometimes I envy you that. I’m just sad,” Lavinia offered. “Just sad. There’s nothing in me but sadness. At least anger and hatred are active emotions. Sadness is just... nothing. Just this empty void.”

“It's not much fun to just be angry and hateful all the time, either.”

“I know that. Believe me, I know that. But your being angry with me helped. It made me feel something other than sadness.”

“Did it make you angry, too?”

Lavinia shook her head.

“I felt pity.”

“Oh heavens help me,” Mary said. “Anything but that. I can’t bear being pitied.”

“I don’t pity you now. I admire you.”

“Whatever for?” Mary asked, but Lavinia wouldn’t answer.

*

Lavinia was not just meek and wilting – she was kind, generous to a fault, and mellow, yes, but she was stubborn underneath it all. Mary wouldn’t be able to respect her if she wasn’t. Her stubbornness wasn’t immediately obvious – it was quieter than Mary’s, but no less admirable for it. She stayed true to her course, stuck to her conscience and stayed true to herself, even if she was in pain. It was the same constancy Matthew had had, and Mary found that she dearly did admire that kind of steadfastness.

*

“It would be easier if I could hate you,” she said to Lavinia.

“For the both of us, I think,” Lavinia replied. Mary put her arm round Lavinia, and Lavinia leaned into her, so they were sitting in an embrace, side-by-side on the sofa. It was slightly inappropriate if someone should walk in and see them slouched all over each other, but Mary found she didn’t care.

*

Lavinia was a mystery to Mary. How could someone be so good? So patient? So understanding? Mary had never had respect for people who didn’t stand up for themselves, she thought them weak, but Lavinia was anything but weak. She wouldn’t have stayed at Downton so long, despite everything and everyone telling her she shouldn’t, if she were.

“You say I’m so selfless and angelic, but it’s not true,” said Lavinia. “I’m actually very selfish. Seeing your hurt made me feel better about mine. And sometimes I have dreadfully unworthy feelings. I get so envious of you sometimes, you must know that. How can I envy you when you have suffered so much?”

“I do, and it doesn't bother me - you have suffered almost as much as me, if not more. As for using my hurt to feel better about yours, I’m glad I could help,” said Mary ruefully. Although she wouldn’t have been able to say such a thing six months ago, when she was in the worst of it, she could say it now, and it was largely due to Lavinia – although she struggled to admit that out loud to Lavinia. “I don’t care if it was selfish – you helped me.”

That was close enough to what she wanted to say. She was sure Lavinia understood.

*

“I’m not staying for Matthew,” Lavinia said, when they were both in the nursery. Geroge was almost crawling – at least making the rocking motions that indicated that he was trying to crawl, and he had lately started developing a habit of trying to reach everything in sight – especially necklaces and earrings. He also had a fondness for Lavinia’s hair, which shone golden in certain lights, and was almost long enough that he could chew on it. Mary understood him – she also had a fondness for Lavinia’s hair, even if she didn’t want to chew it. No, she wanted to run her fingers through it, and feel the silky softness under her hands.

“I came for him, I think,” Lavinia continued, oblivious to Mary’s thoughts, “but I’m staying for you and George.”

“I’m glad. I don’t know how I would have coped without you.”

She scooped George up from the floor and bounced him on her knees, making him squeal in delight.

“I don’t think I’ll ever remarry,” she said. “I know it’s soon after Matthew’s death, and I might change my mind – trust me, Mama keeps telling me, but I don’t think I could love any other man like I loved him.”

The qualifier ‘any other _man_ ’ was becoming increasingly important. She thought she could probably love Lavinia, if Lavinia would allow it.

“I don’t think I will, either,” Lavinia said.

Good. Hopefully that meant she would stay with Mary for a long, long time.

*

As spring turned the corner and life on the estate and the tenant farmers started to pick up the pace, Mary felt an energy burning inside her – she was longing to be active, to do something, to be involved in the running of the estate, take over from Matthew and act as steward together with Tom – there was no reason she shouldn’t be able to, she’d seen him do it, and would pick up the rest in due time working with Tom. Papa was, unsurprisingly, the main obstacle. It was both a combination of his Victorian ideas of ideal womanhood, and a desire to shield his daughter. Knowing it came from a place of concern and love did not make it easier to deal with, even though she knew that in the end she would prevail – she was far more stubborn than Papa, and this was George’s inheritance she was dealing with. In the absence of a father, she would have to be his first advocate, the one to look out for his interests in every way.

Mary had her way eventually – she was to be involved in the running of the estate. She had a suspicion Tom had been appointed her babysitter, but as they got on quite well and he didn't keep her out of any decisions, she didn't actually mind.

Edith had her own business going on up in London, with some newspaper man she fancied herself in love with (she really did have a thing for older men – perhaps because they were the only ones who would ever show any interest in liking her back), so Lavinia stepped up and helped Mama with her business on the charitable committees and running the house, and acting as a hostess in a very limited capacity, now that they were starting to entertain in a small way again – only private dinners with close friends and family, but still more than they had in the autumn. She would have been a good wife to Matthew, and made a good Lady Grantham. She was approachable, and would have been able to help the tenant wives with their concerns. It was a shame they couldn’t both have been Lady Grantham – she didn’t want to fight Lavinia for the position, but she did want to share it with her. The two would have complimented each other very well. But now there was no Matthew to bestow the title upon anyone, so the point was moot. The two of them would have to muddle along on their own.

*

Lavinia was extraordinarily pretty, with her soft face, her button nose, her golden hair, green yes and pretty little mouth. She was beautiful, in fact. Mary could see why Matthew had loved her – she was so easy to love.

*

“Do you know, when you got married, I’m not sure who I was most jealous of, you, or Matthew,” Lavinia confessed one evening. They had decided to forgo ringing for Anna, and Mary hoped she wasn’t making too much of a hash out of getting Lavinia out of her dress. Thankfully modern dresses were easier – she couldn’t imagine helping Lavinia out of a tight-laced corset, like they’d worn before the war.

It was an intimate confession, and might have been dangerous, had not Mary felt the same way about Lavinia.

“You should have said something,” she said. “We could have tried to make a go at it, the three of us.”

Then she was honest with herself.

“Actually, no, we probably couldn’t have. I was too jealous and petty back then – either I would have been jealous of you for taking Matthew’s attention, or jealous of him for taking yours! But at the time, I only had eyes for Matthew. I didn’t appreciate you nearly as much as I ought to.”

“And now?”

“You must know how I feel now. Don’t make me say it,” Mary begged.

“But I want to hear it.”

“Well, in that case, now I appreciate you more than any other person alive.”

There. That would be enough. Lavinia was adept at reading between the lines, and saying anything else, anything more, would just feel forced and awkward. Mary had never been one for making grand declarations of her passions, or reading sappy poetry and overwhelming her loved ones with tortured metaphors. A quiet, understated sentence was more what she felt comfortable with, and both Matthew and Lavinia understood that. She was so very lucky in her loves.

*

Kissing Lavinia was nothing like kissing Matthew – Matthew was usually clean-shaven, but even then, his face was coarser than Lavinia’s, and in the evenings there would be the scratch of the day’s stubble against her chin. Matthew pushed against her, it was a give and take, thrilling. Lavinia followed Mary’s lead, not in a passive way, but she met Mary enthusiastically, and there was a perfect concordance between them. Lavinia was not Matthew, nor a replacement for him. She was her own, and Mary loved her, not because of their shared history, but despite it.

*

“When Matthew died, I thought I would never be happy again. I can’t get over the feeling that it’s a betrayal of his memory to be happy with you,” Mary said, cuddled up in Lavinia’s bed.

“He wouldn’t mind,” Lavinia said with certainty. “He’d be happy for us.”

“You always think the best of people,” Mary said softly.

“They usually prove me right. You did.”

“I was horrid,” Mary objected.

“You were hurting.”

*

“I don’t want to give up the life I have here with you, not ever,” Lavinia said to Mary some time later.

“Then don’t,” Mary offered. “Stay, forever. Raise George with me.”

“There’s nothing I would like more.”

*

“You want Lavinia to move here – permanently?” Papa asked. “Why?”

Mary wanted to say: because I love her. Because she’s a good mother to George. Because she’s the only person who’s lost what I’ve lost in the same way. Because she’s the only person who can fill the hole in me. But she couldn’t say anything of that, so instead she just said:

“Because she gave me back the will to live.”

She wasn’t quite sure if Papa could infer the words below the words she said, but his confusion was quite clear.

“Besides, she’s all but moved in already, this would just be making things official.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” Papa said sceptically. Mary put her arms around him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Sometimes it was very good to have a Papa who couldn’t say no to you.

*

“Are you sure you’re not worried what people will think?” Mary asked once again. Lavinia had repeatedly reassured her that she didn’t, but Mary worried. After all, it was Lavinia who had the most to lose if this went wrong.

“Let them think what they want,” Lavinia said, as she had so many times. “It’s not so far beyond the realm of the unusual that we – what was it you said? That we fell into each other’s arms and cried? We became bosom sisters, joined by our shared pain?”

Mary was ashamed to hear her own words repeated back to her, not least because it meant Lavinia remembered them, that she had placed enough notice on them that they stuck with her.

“I can’t quite believe you stuck it out with me,” she said. “I was awful.”

“But aren’t you glad I did?”

“Very,” Mary answered, and captured her mouth in a kiss.

“I wish we could get married,” Lavinia said when they broke apart. “It’s selfish of me, but sometimes I get so jealous of you.”

Mary stroked her across the chin, unable to offer more comfort than that.

“It’s not even that you got to marry Matthew – although that does play a part, too, I must admit – but also that you got to have a wedding, you got the be a bride, and I never will.”

It was a shame, because Lavinia would make such a beautiful bride.

“We can have our own private wedding,” Mary said. Lavinia looked startled at her sudden proclamation. “I still have my wedding dress, we can have Anna alter it to fit you in secret.”

“Won’t she wonder why?”

“Of course she will, but she’d never _say_ anything.”

*

It felt inadequate, just to have the wedding dress altered. With Matthew, there had been the romantic proposal in the snow outside the house, the Church wedding, the reception and the dinner, with all their friends and family. It seemed such a shame not to have that with Lavinia – as if their love was lesser, just because it wasn’t socially sanctioned. They were just as much in love, and the promises they made were, to Mary, just as binding and permanent. She wanted to give Lavinia all that Matthew had given here, at least all that was in her power to give.

So she stole one of Lavinia’s rings and took it to York to have a new ring made to match her size, and a matching one made for herself. She arranged for a walk in the garden on a warm and pleasant spring day. Lavinia seemed to sense that there was something special about it, and said very little as they walked arm in arm, just soaking in the warmth and each other’s company. When they got to behind a private hedge Mary let go of Lavinia’s arm and reached to where she had hidden the ring box in her sash. She went down on one knee, cringing a little bit at what the dirt must be doing to her dress, but hopefully Anna would forgive her.

Lavinia’s hands went to her mouth.

“Lavinia, I can’t marry you properly, but I want you to be mine forever, and I swear to love you the way you ought. Will you not-marry me and live with me for the rest of our days?”

“Yes,” Lavinia said, voice wobbling a bit and eyes full of tears. “Yes, I will.”

*

Lavinia and Mary wore their matching engagement rings on their right hand, as Lavinia wearing a ring on her left would raise too many questions. Mary still wore her engagement ring and wedding band from Matthew on her left hand.

“Am I to congratulate you, miss?” Anna asked when Mary and Lavinia brought their request to her.

“I suppose you might,” Lavinia said. “But not for the reason you think.”

“Lavinia has agreed to celebrate that neither of us will ever get married again, and since I have already been a bride, it seemed only fair for her to try it for a day,” Mary gave Anna the explanation she and Lavinia had agreed on. It was close enough to the truth to be accepted, she thought, even if it was a little strange.

“I see,” said Anna politely, to cover up that she very much didn’t.

The rest of the family were aware that Mary and Lavinia had some sort of scheme going, but they let them have their planning in peace.

“It’s nice to see you get enthusiastic about something again, dear,” was all Mama said. “I won’t pry – I know how much you value your secrets.”

“Thank you,” Mary said, feeling truly grateful. “I do appreciate it. This is just something Lavinia need to do, for the pair of us.”

They thought it had something to do with Matthew, and neither Mary nor Lavinia was about to disabuse them of the notion.

*

They held the ceremony in Lavinia’s room, where there was less chance of somebody accidentally walking in on them. Mary played a march on Matthew’s gramophone as Lavinia walked from the door to the window, where Mary was waiting. The dress looked radiant on her, and she shone with happiness. Mary herself wore her best black dress, to emulate a suit. They had braided flowers in Lavinia’s hair and fitted her with a veil, so that she looked every inch a bride. It was a shame nobody else could see her, but there was also a thrill in it – this was their secret, a ceremony just for them.

They said their vows without a priest to guide them through it, adapting the vows to suit them, swearing to be true to each other, to love each other, to stay strong and support each other, to have and to hold, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until the end of their days. It was an easy promise to make to Lavinia – was that not what they had already done?

When the time came to exchange rings, Mary slipped the wedding band off her finger, and handed it to Lavinia.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t!” Lavinia said.

“Please,” Mary said. “It would mean a lot to me.”

Lavinia held out her hand, and Mary slipped it on Lavinia’s finger. She’d had a chain bought so Lavinia could wear it round her neck most days, but today, she wanted to do it properly.

Lavinia returned the gesture with a ring of her own.

“It was my mother’s ring,” she said.

“I shall cherish it always,” Mary replied. Unlike Lavinia, she could wear it on her proper hand, together with Matthew’s engagement ring – nobody would look close enough to see it wasn’t her first wedding band.

Mary’s second wedding was much smaller than her first. There was no priest, no music, no Church, no families. There was just her and Lavinia. But that was what mattered.


End file.
